


In Good Hands

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anniversary, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holiday Weekend, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Sort Of, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 08:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20721209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: Aziraphale was created wearing a golden ring. It’s now the last remaining aspect of his original attire.One day, he tries to take it off. The rest follows naturally.Can be read as a standalone work.





	1. I Ain't Ready

A shaft of sun fell in through the round skylight, illuminating the bookshop’s dusty attic.

In it, his hair and his every contour lit up like a full-body halo, Aziraphale contemplated his attire.

It really had its perks, being a supernatural, immortal being with the power of minor and sometimes major miracles at one’s fingertips. It rendered one able to keep one’s favorite waistcoat in prime condition for nearly a hundred and sixty years, for example. Perhaps not what the average mortal would choose to do with ultimate power, but still. The angel huffed a little at the notion. It was good to have priorities, he decided, curtly nodding to himself.

His camelhair coat had been in his possession for even longer. He’d acquired it from a delightfully bespoke tailor on Savile Row in 1835, and he’d liked it so much he’d kept intending to go back and see what they were up to during the century that followed, but somehow had never gotten around to it before they’d been destroyed in the 1940 bombings. He’d found it very hard to let go of the coat after that, indeed.

His bowties had come into play all the way back in 1890, when they’d really come into British fashion and replaced the French cravat. Aziraphale was seldom hasty in anything, but here he’d fallen in love instantly, and never let go either.

He still had the cream top hat that went with his coat, but hadn’t worn it since the 1930s when he’d started to feel self-conscious about it. He’d regretted the loss so much that he’d decided to toughen up a little, and kept on wearing the rest of his increasingly outdated wardrobe ever since, refusing to care for anyone’s opinion any longer. Well, at least he could still occasionally get away with wearing the other, black top hat during his magic shows. He quirked a smile at the thought.

Beside the hats, there was more stored away in the closet before him he didn’t have the heart to do away with, tucked away in the bookshop’s dusty attic. His 1700s white stockings and satin-lined shoes, for example, he’d gone to great pains to retrieve those, get the blood off them and miracle them back to his own size after having lunch with Crowley in Revolution-ravaged Paris. His Elizabethan ruff, his winged Roman fibula. He would’ve kept his Arthurian fur cloak, but even miracles hadn’t gotten the smell of mold and damp horse out of that.

Aziraphale liked his clothes and accessories. There was a reason he actually bought them, as opposed to miracling them up as he fancied, like a certain demon who cared more for appearing snazzy and up-to-date than actually forming any real attachment to his possessions. Aziraphale truly valued his own personal style and every article of clothing currently contributing to it, because every single one of them removed him further from Heaven’s uniforms, perfect and pristine, cut from purest firmament. Everything he owned distanced him from the white robes he’d been created in, and the stark white immaterial version of his current attire bound to his discorporated essence.

And this brought him to the point he was almost getting tempted to avoid, instead having dwelled on distractions for a good few minutes.

Over the centuries, he’d changed everything about himself, abandoning the ethereal for the material, wrapping himself up in linen and wool, silk and satin, even leather and steel at one point he tried not to think about too much. He’d made choices, discarding and adding, gradually changing every single detail… but one.

He finally looked down at his right hand.

Throughout the centuries, humans had assigned symbolic meanings to every finger one could wear a ring on, from romantic connotations to connections to organized crime. A ring around the right little finger, they’d decided, was symbolic of professional status, reflecting one’s occupation. In some cultures, it referred to one’s family, or was an indication of being a good follower.

His pinkie ring gleamed back at him in the dusty attic light, gold and feathered, spread wings surrounding a crowned crest bearing an engraved griffin rampant. Aziraphale had been created from raw firmament wearing this ring, though it hadn’t been quite so detailed at first. He’d added the griffin design himself around the Victorian era; the griffin, as a noble sigil, symbolized both heavenly and earthly qualities, among other things[1].

Still, even with that semi-conscious – or at least so he told himself – little ‘take that’ towards his superiors, this was the only thing he’d never been without. The only Heavenly accent he’d never removed. He’d never had a real reason to.

It’d been almost a year since he’d gotten himself cast out of and cut off from Heaven. His professional occupation had had quite the overhaul, as had his chosen family, and he didn’t consider himself a follower of anyone in particular any longer. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to change this final detail, too, to take the final step of this journey.

He took a breath, and closed his fingers around it.

…It was more difficult than he’d expected to take it off. Much more so, in fact.

Part of him had anticipated… something. He hadn’t known what exactly. But there was a reason he was upstairs attempting this while Crowley was curled up on a cleared bit of bookshelf that caught the summer sunlight, asleep and unsuspecting.

He tried again. Something in the ring, or under it, started shining, and a moment later it started _singing,_ a pure and harmonious note that was just one part of a celestial harmony. _Holy. Holy. Holy._

Aziraphale almost pulled back his hand and let the ring sit. Then he set his jaw, resolutely pressed his lips together, severely glared at the ring – and tried a third time.

_Third time’s the charm._

With a last, high note, a small eruption of ethereal energy and a blinding flash of golden light, the ring slipped off.

And in the same instant, part of Aziraphale shattered away with it.

A wispy cloud drifted across the sun high above, dimming the shaft of light falling in through the skylight from white-gold to cool grey.

The angel found himself collapsed to the floor as his eyes blinked open, his breathing ragged, fingers clutching the ring. He worriedly examined himself. His body appeared to be in order. Wings? Present, still white, still in the usual slightly messy disarray that’d make Crowley scrunch up his face before offering a grooming. Halo? Still gently dancing between his fingers once he called it up and brought a shaky hand to his hair. His essence?

…Hmm. Something was off. Rather literally, in this case. Something was _missing_ – just the smallest sliver, the barest shard of him.

He looked down at the ring in his hand, a breath escaping him. “Not just a ring, is it,” he uttered to himself.

_Holy. Holy. Holy._

He was holding part of himself.

He quietly clasped his free hand to his mouth, taking in the separation, taking in what he’d just done.

He’d just removed part of his true, ethereal self. Part of what remained when the physical body was taken away.

He’d only been discorporated once, but even with a Heaven-issued body, he’d still have returned wearing that ring. A golden accent, like most angels sported somewhere on their bodies.

Not anymore. Not him. He’d just removed the final part of his original form. He’d finally taken out the final board from his old ship of Theseus, and while it hadn’t gone quietly, gone it had.

He was quite sure no angel had ever done this before. Then again, what else was new?

“Oh dear, oh dear.”

Despite himself, despite having wanted this, he tried putting the ring back on, just to see. There was no resistance, but the severed part of his essence didn’t meld back to the rest of him. Of course not. This was something irrevocable, not something you could just fix with some metaphorical tape and good will.

“Oh goodness.”

Aziraphale fiddled, his thoughts sending him pacing around the attic as he was wont to do when nervous and indecisive, and right now he very much was both. _Now what?_ What to do with it now? Wearing it felt wrong. Keeping it around somewhere in a drawer, even moreso. Getting rid of it was unthinkable; it’d only trip up some poor human somewhere.

He didn’t regret what he’d done, though. He could feel a smile creeping onto his face as his initial shock wore off; it felt good to have taken this final step. And something in him was already way beyond that bashful thought, gleefully racing ahead, shocking and scandalizing the rest of his mind with a thought both crazy and absolutely wonderful.

His pacing had sent him past the stairs leading down a few times, granting him brief glimpses into the two floors of bookshop below. He halted, gaze lingering on the sunny shelf bearing the black serpent that meant the world to him.

He’d taken the final step, but Crowley had always been the journey. It’d always been theirs, together. Their impossible, forbidden adventure that’d led to him wanting to distance himself from Heaven in the first place, in whatever understated way he could at the time. Their _side._

He looked down at his hands.

He knew why he’d _really_ wanted to take off this ring. And he knew what he wanted to do with it now he held it in the palm of his hand at last. He knew. He realized he’d known for a while, now. He just hadn’t let himself think it.

He was done with that now.

His smile widened, a tremulous, fragile, terribly bright thing, just shy of painful as searing light filled his heart. He quietly reeled himself in – he didn’t want Crowley to pick up on him, not now, not yet…

It was a silly idea. Very silly indeed, but it’d never been possible before and now it _was,_ he was holding the possibility in his hands, and he knew the idea would never leave his head until he followed through on it. But he had to do it right. He owed his demon that much.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do. And come to think of it, there really couldn’t have been a more perfect moment for this.

He put the ring back on, paying no heed to the way it remained separate from his aura, and quietly moved down the stairs.

Crowley wasn’t normally one to waste a perfectly good day dozing, but he’d figured he’d earned it. He’d spent all week on the biggest self-imposed sabotaging event of the year so far, and he was bloody tired.

London was planning the construction of an awful lot of so-called ‘tall buildings’ in the coming years – not quite skyscrapers, but tall enough to alter the skyline considerably, filling it out with angular shapes blotting out some other characteristic landmarks he’d grown rather fond of. Crowley was all for progress and modernization, but this was _his_ skyline and he loathed the way the plans looked. He’d taken it on himself to introduce a few structural problems to the construction process, and worsen others. He’d been tampering with cement and chuckling at the dripping results, holding up traffic around the construction sites so nothing could be delivered on time, and while he hadn’t gotten to see it, he’d been smiling in his sleep all afternoon just _thinking_ of the workers’ reactions to what he’d turned the shipment of reinforced steel cables into.

Maybe he was just delaying the inevitable. London would keep growing, such was the nature of people– bloody fruitful, multiplying people, always in need of more space. Always turning villages into cities and cities into bigger cities. But he could try, and have a little fun while doing so, at least.

He slowly woke, sight returning to his unblinking eyes as the sound of rummaging and the lighting of the little stove reached his ears[2]. As Aziraphale settled at his reading desk with a mug of hot cocoa, Crowley lazily followed him with his eyes at first, but then uncoiled and slid down to the floor, slithering over and wrapping around his shoulders to continue dozing in a warmth provided by a much better kind of heavenly body than the mere sun.

“Hello, my dear.”

Being greeted in that voice felt like the whole world softened around you and wrapped you up in itself like a warm blanket. Not even settling into the soft collar itself could compare. How did the angel do it?

“Mgh,” said Crowley.

A smile. “You don’t seem very well-rested. Will I be losing you for a few more days? I suppose you’ll be in the shop at least.”

“No, no.” A yawn, opening his fanged jaws at an almost straight angle. “‘M awake.”

The turn of a page, a pause that made a valiant attempt at seeming thoughtful, though Crowley could feel, even in his groggy state, that his angel had something on the tip of his tongue already. Then, with characteristically terrible feigned nonchalance: “You almost seem in need of a little getaway. Somewhere a little more quiet.”

Crowley tensed minutely. His thoughts came grinding into motion, picking up speed with the force of habit; there were so many things to do, to see, so many wiles to… well, wile. “Leaving London?” he uttered.

“Mm. Not terribly long, perhaps. Not terribly far. Just a weekend would do you a world of good, I’d think.” Aziraphale pushed up his reading glasses and craned back his head to kiss him on the nose. “Taking a break is a good idea _especially_ if you feel like you have no time for it, darling.”

Crowley flicked his tongue at him, groused for a moment. “Thought I was the one supposed to be dealing out risky bits of wisdom.”

“Do I infer you are implying I am correct in my assumption, then?”

The serpent nudged the angel’s cheek. “I’m not awake enough for that kind of talk, angel. But… yes. I’d say you read my mind.”

The golden aura concealed in the body under his coils tangibly lit up, and Aziraphale’s eyes glinted. “Marvelous. I’ve got just the remedy.”

The following Friday, after having placed a few phone calls, packing a tartan suitcase and closing the bookshop even more firmly than usual, Aziraphale stopped by Crowley’s apartment to pick him up. He found the demon still throwing together his own possessions, and then proceeding at length to fuss over the lush apple tree that’d sprouted in his hallway last spring. By now it’d been properly planted in an immense dark basin of a pot, seamlessly sunken into the demon's anthracite floor tiles, and altogether too smug about it. Where the other plants had gotten a fair treatment of threats and spraying, the apple tree received multiple hauled watering cans’ worth of moisture to last it the weekend, and the demon’s muttering took on a hint of viciousness that could only have been born of worry and care. Aziraphale observed it all with a highly amused smile before his demon at last turned to him and allowed himself to be escorted outside.

The Bentley had barely gotten into gear before they were caught up in an inevitable traffic jam around Battersea, mysteriously sprung up because multiple construction companies somehow simultaneously had a few days’ worth of shipments to catch up on and were intent on doing so in a hurry and all at the same time. Crowley was reduced to plonking his arms and head down onto the steering wheel and groaning while Aziraphale patted his shoulder and tried to keep a fond smirk at bay. “Don’t you worry. We have all day to get there. I knew better than to put us on a strict schedule.”

One yellow eye was raised to him from between the demon’s outstretched arms. “At the risk of getting a bit too literal… you’re a Heavensent, angel.”

“Merely observant, dearest.”

Traffic was blessedly merciful to them for much of the rest of the way, even as they traversed the dreaded M25. Aziraphale led them further and further southwest with the aid of an ancient and rather outdated road map, so that Crowley had to improvise here and there lest they be lost in the heart of small towns or down roads that no longer lead anywhere, but still the angel refused to tell them where they were ultimately headed. Eventually, they left towns and cities behind, racing through the open South Downs countryside with only the occasional village in sight. Fields of crops, rolling hills and dense, rustling woodland flanked their way. The view ahead was hazy and blue under the summer sun, and the most calming thing Crowley had seen in a long time. He could feel his eyes relaxing at the sight, followed by the rest of his body; carefully, tentatively. He caught Aziraphale smiling, and his own mouth quirked as well. _Temptation accomplished._

The angel, meanwhile, found himself unable to _stop_ smiling, and had to turn and look out the window for fear of the demon getting suspicious. His right hand, bearing the ring, twitched against his own cheek as he realized he had a case of what could only be _jitters._

_Goodness gracious._

Well. It was only appropriate, considering what this little trip was really about.

_This thing  
Called love  
I just can’t handle it…_

Aziraphale ventured a glance over at his demon. Crowley had started humming along to the song, and all of a sudden the sound of his voice went straight to the angel’s heart. How had he ever gotten this lucky? The one spark of goodness in Hell, Eden’s most beautiful creature by far, the infinite variety of him that he’d been privy to in the millennia that followed. The way the tension in his shoulders let up now, slowly relaxing back into the cool swagger of the serpent he knew. The lazy curl of an easy smile around his lips, the glint of warm gold over his sunglasses. His long, elegant hands around the wheel.

Thousands of years of waiting, just one of following his heart, and Aziraphale couldn’t possibly get enough. He was the luckiest angel on Earth, he had to be.

_This thing called love  
I must get round to it  
I ain’t ready_

He wasn’t. He was. He’d been for a very long time, and yet not at all.

“_…Crazy little thing called love._” Crowley’s hand snuck into his, and Aziraphale’s heart nearly burst with something quite crazy indeed. The demon hadn’t taken his eyes off the road, but his smile had widened ever so slightly.

_I gotta be cool, relax, get hip  
And get on my tracks  
Take a back seat, hitchhike  
And take a long ride on my motorbike  
Until I’m ready (Ready Freddie?)_

Aziraphale shot the Bentley’s radio a look. By now, he was reasonably sure the car was at least a little sentient, and directly addressing him for a change. He just hoped he wasn’t this transparent to Crowley, as well.

“_…Crazy little thing called love,_” he agreed with a quiet smile of his own, running his thumb along the fingers in his grip.

About an hour in, Aziraphale’s directions grew more specific, and the demon knew they were nearing their destination. As they rounded a sharp bend in their ever-narrowing highway through the sunny woods, and the first trappings of a small town started appearing around them, he didn’t know where he was at first. Then his eyes caught a signpost, narrowed in thoughtful recognition, and then widened when the memory came crashing down on him, huffing in snooty indignation at being demoted to vague recollection in the first place. He turned to the angel, hands frozen around the wheel, momentarily leaving the driving to the Bentley. “_Epfield?!_”

Aziraphale had to grin in delight at the demon’s shock. “Oh, don’t act so surprised, can’t I take you down memory lane? Take a left, dear.”

The demon reacted almost purely on instinct, the car squealing into the town proper unlike anything the townsfolk had seen in quite a while. Those few out and about at the moment jumped at their speed, staring and shaking fists in some cases, and Aziraphale allowed himself some satisfaction – his demon did drive like a maniac, and it was good to have affirmation of his woes from an outside party sometimes. “Don’t get anyone killed, please. Especially not here.”

“Hardly knew this place still existed,” Crowley muttered. “Someone’s sake, it’s been a thousand years.” He whipped around, staring at the angel. “Angel. It’s been a _thousand years._ On the _dot._”

“What better time and place to celebrate, don’t you agree?”

Once upon a time in the year 537, when they’d both been leading a band of knights violently opposed to one another, Crowley had first brought up the idea of slacking off on their respective responsibilities to make life easier on the both of them. Aziraphale had been far from ready to even ponder the idea then. Half a millennium later, however, his scruples had let up a bit.

In the Year of Someone’s Lord 1020, the world hadn’t been much better off than in Arthurian times. England had borne witness to the invasion of Cnut the Great, a Danish Viking ruler hellbent on conquering not only Norway but also their fair island. Aziraphale had been aiding and protecting a band of displaced villagers and an incinerated monastery’s worth of monks. Crowley had been leading a band of Viking invaders, and none too happy about it. They’d run into eachother right here in the southern countryside, and Crowley had made his offer again. Seeing the demon’s sincerity and willingness to just turn around and leave even if he were to say no, Aziraphale had finally relented, telling himself Heaven couldn’t possibly object to him inspiring peace and goodwill among the demon’s followers like this. He’d given a nod and a smile slightly too wide and bright to signify mere relief, and he’d seen the demon’s eyes light up with something he’d refused to place at the time. They’d shaken hands[3], and he hadn’t Fallen from grace that instant, so really it couldn’t be all that bad to make this particular deal with this particular demon…

To his relief and Crowley’s fond lack of surprise – _just people being people, angel_ – the demon’s Danes had wholeheartedly agreed to abandoning their path of conquest, not electing a new leader but choosing to stay right where they were, along with Aziraphale’s villagers and monks. After quite the round of celebratory drinks[4], and bidding goodbye to their respective protector and leader as they’d abandoned their duties, the lot of them had decided to found a new village together. Their varied temperaments, heritages and skills had come in wondrously handy, like a microcosm of humanity.

When the Danes had asked Crowley to give the new village his blessing before he left, the demon had only smiled and handed them an apple instead, telling them he and his friend were leaving the place in perfectly good hands without any sort of otherworldly help. The spot had henceforth been deemed Æppelfield, which had morphed into Epfield over the centuries. The humble agreement between angel and demon had later become known as the Arrangement, and the rest was ancient history.

The two of them took in the familiar, yet unrecognizable sight of 2020 Epfield as they drove through it, the demon actually keeping to the speed limit now his interest had been piqued this way. The highway ran a good distance around it, so the place was green and quiet in the afternoon sunlight, but not completely still; the amount of people out and about ensured a lively atmosphere, and the streets were garlanded with banners advertising some summer festival or other coming up next Monday. From the car, Crowley spotted an antique store next to a wine bar, and smirked at the angel in approval. Aziraphale, for his part, was also attentively feasting his eyes on what they helped found all those centuries ago, and felt he’d made the right decision in dragging Crowley here. “You remember when London looked like this, once upon a time?” he remarked quietly. “Small, humble, peaceful almost.” He spotted white plaster buildings with characteristic beamwork, and his smile widened. “Look at that.”

“You’d almost forget that style’s still around,” Crowley agreed. “Only ever see it at the Globe nowadays.”

“We watched London grow and it was lovely, but – call me an old silly – I’ve always loved what it started out as, too.”

“Hmm.”

The angel took the demon’s free hand, but he’d been able to clearly sense the unexpected delight in his dark aura without doing so, all the same.

Crowley laughed out loud seeing their hotel.

Where it wasn’t wrapped in delicate purple wisteria, the building was white plaster and dark beams as well, looking like a former Elizabethan-era pub. The sign over the door proclaimed it the _Good Intent._

“Can’t have been named after our intentions back then, but I appreciate the gesture, angel.”

“I imagine it’s named after a ship,” Aziraphale nodded, indicating the schooner on the sign. “Either way, isn’t the road to Hell paved with good intentions, as well?”

“You know just as well as I that that’s frozen door-to-door salesmen.” Crowley grinned as they strolled across the hotel’s sunny, flower-laden patio and through its doors. They checked in with the very nice old lady at the counter, took their key and went up to one of a handful of rooms, both feeling light and strangely giddy simply being somewhere else, out in the open like this just because they’d chosen to be. They’d forgotten all about their luggage, but precisely because of this, it was already obediently waiting for them as soon as they opened their door.

Crowley let himself flop backwards onto the pristine linen-covered bed, immediately sinking away in clean white fluff with a blissful sigh. As he took off his glasses, set them aside on the bedstand and cracked open one golden eye, he found his angel positively beaming at him. “What’s that look for, now?”

“Just…”

“Just?” The demon grinned as Aziraphale hung his coat and took off his shoes, without taking his eyes off him or even shooting an admonishing glance at the scaly boots hanging just over the edge of the bed. “Just what?”

“Just you. Just this _place._ Oh, but mostly you.” The angel sat down and leaned over. “You’re not even doing any tempting right now, are you.”

Crowley shook his head, his cheeks and ears feeling slightly warmer than they ought to. “Just your standard, tired and content demon. _…You_ might be, though.” He found no resistance as he reeled the angel in and they melted together in a series of slow, languid kisses, one flowing into the next, enveloped in newness and nostalgia and _eachother._

“Bloody genius, bringing us here,” Crowley murmured against the angel’s lips. “Just right.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Aziraphale smiled back, eyes blissfully closed, light dancing across his skin. “Well, we always did, but…”

“But now it _feels_ like it, too.”

“Mmm…”

After this, there was a distinct lack of talking as the light outside gradually warmed its way towards the golden hour, and light of a more supernatural persuasion filled the little room inside.

When they eventually left the hotel again, Crowley took charge with a newfound spring in his step. Always inquisitive, he wanted to get the scope of present-day Epfield, and Aziraphale happily let himself be dragged down the narrow streets, his eyes ever wandering. “So many charming little shops! Oh, Crowley, look.” The angel let out a huff of laughter. “_Seventh Heaven._”

“Let’s steer clear of that one.” The demon looked over. “Oh no, that hippie junk. Surely –”

“_Surely,_ I’ll be picking up a few of those lovely hanging crystals before we leave,” Aziraphale smirked. “They’d look very pretty in the bookshop. Rainbow light all over.”

“Behold, he’s caught up to the seventies,” the demon deadpanned. “At least the delay is _consistent._”

The angel’s eye had already been caught by something else down the wider street theirs emerged into. “Oh, there’s a theatre!” It was no Sondheim or London Palladium, but it was charming, all the same – perhaps moreso. Soho alone counted four big theatres and he’d come to take them all for granted. This small domed hall meant more, somehow; it seemed more personal, more real.

They passed a little museum on local history, which they didn’t enter yet but Crowley did deem rather accurate where it came to Viking heritage at first glance (“More of a focus on combs than helmets, as it should be. Everyone remembers the violence, but I really didn’t get enough credit for the vanity.”). They also passed by the ancient, garden-fringed monastery the budding town had been built around, which elicited enthusiasm and a flood of fond reminiscing from Aziraphale, but when Crowley pointed out the angel would have to go in alone, he conceded at once that it could wait.

They kept pointing out details to one another until they stumbled across an exquisite little restaurant titled the Folly Upstairs, which made Aziraphale laugh harder than Crowley had at the Good Intent, sending Crowley into a fit as well. Once they’d composed themselves and taken a look at the menu, they found it was as fine as that of any of Aziraphale's Soho favourites. There was a sunny outdoor dining area garlanded with grape vines that simply begged for them to come and have a few drinks.

Neither of them had ever been good at refusing earthly delights. Before long, they’d sampled their way through a selection of wines and a bout of leisurely peoplewatching. Then Crowley turned to Aziraphale, holding out his glass with a smile as warm as the coppery sunlight. “To a thousand years, angel.” His voice was full of wonder, and just a hint of incredulity.

“A thousand years of Arranged companionship,” Aziraphale toasted, “and everything it turned into.”

“To the world it helped save, kinda sorta maybe.”

“To the world…” The angel felt something akin to a flaming sword pierce his heart, but there couldn’t possibly be a sweeter pain than this – “…and you in it.”

And just like a year ago when he hadn’t _quite_ uttered those words yet, their wining turned into dining, and their dining found a natural conclusion in a sunset stroll. The evening air lured them out of town, where paved streets made way for footpaths under overhanging trees, the underbrush chirping with crickets, the air swarming with dancing mosquitoes. On their left, just visible through the trailing boughs of hunched willow trees, was a calm little lake full of sleepy ducks, the evening light reflecting a sliver of fire in the water. On their right, the woods rustled with what sounded like the whisper of a thousand ancient secrets. Overhead, the day shift of swallows was being relieved by a night shift of flitting bats against a stunning red- and orange-streaked sky.

It was nothing short of perfect, exactly what Aziraphale had been waiting for.

And he realized he couldn’t do it.

His heart was making an altogether unnecessary nuisance of itself. It took everything he had to keep his aura from startling the birds. His ring burned on his right hand, Crowley’s hand burned in his left, and the tranquil lakeside was _right there,_ but something kept him from steering them towards it, instead moving along towards a forking pathway leading into the woods.

Change. He’d never been good with it. (It wouldn’t change anything. It would change _everything._) Something to do with going too fast. And what if – what if –

Crowley had been so very tired and stressed, he should be allowed at least a day of proper relaxation before Aziraphale laid this on him. Right?

The moment passed him by, tutting distastefully as it went.

Then the demon chuckled, pulling him from his fretting and one-handed fidgeting. “Angel, look.”

A sign proclaimed this pathway the _Serpent Trail._

“How about that,” Aziraphale managed, remembering how to breathe.

Perhaps now hadn’t been the moment after all?

“Nothing for it, now we have to see.” The demon pulled him into the dappled shade with almost uncharacteristic keenness. “It’s got my name on it.”

“Aren’t there lots of snakes in the countryside? You’ve got competition, my dear.”

Crowley sputtered. “You offend me, angel. No mere earthly snake has anything on me. These woods are mine.”

“Glad to see your sense of Pride hasn’t suffered a bit in the light of that spark of goodness of yours,” Aziraphale quipped, bracing himself for more sputtering. He wasn’t disappointed. He smiled smugly; he knew Crowley was alright with his good qualities being acknowledged by now, but the occasional token resistance was still very endearing. Old habits died hard, and he didn’t mind; he’d loved Crowley long before they’d taken their freedom, after all.

They’d followed the meandering trail into the darkening woods for a good while when it joined up with a wider road, and the trees around them opened up to reveal something rising just above the tallest of them. The angel and demon slowed, then halted.

An old, abandoned cottage, the battered shell of a building, overgrown with ivy and wild roses creeping in on all sides from the unkempt jungle that’d once been a garden. Shattered windows, a roof full of holes, a snapped-off weather vane. It was dark and still in the falling night, stars and a waxing moon only just peeking out above it, above the two of them as they held hands and looked at it in an inexplicable sort of silence, but somehow it seemed as though there were in fact lights on behind those empty windows. The August night was warm and balmy, but the sight before them seemed warmer still.

“Huh,” said Crowley, thoughtfully.

And another moment passed them by, without saying a word, only giving them a meaningful and lingering look as it slunk from present to past.

The demon turned around, peering down the wider road through the dark woodland. “I think that leads back to town.”

“It is getting a bit dark,” the angel heard himself say, in a tone really far too matter-of-fact to match what he’d just felt. “…My night vision isn’t as good as yours.”

Crowley let go of his hand, but only to loop his arm through Aziraphale’s. “Allow me,” he smiled gallantly, and turned their backs on the moonlight and everything it outlined there.

Upon returning to the _Good Intent,_ they found Friday night was a time for live music, and for townsfolk and tourists alike to gather in the pub downstairs to enjoy it over a drink. The angel and demon took a look at the band, the people and the warm atmosphere, glanced at one another, and decided without needing words to linger and enjoy humanity a little longer.

They didn’t really mingle with the people, electing to sit and observe as they’d spent so much time doing, but they did find themselves gradually absorbed into the music and the conversations around them, warmly watching the slightly chaotic dancing taking place. As a song came on that seemingly everybody knew, they caught themselves singing along to something that wasn’t Queen for a change. Crowley would’ve felt slightly guilty towards his beloved Bentley, but a little later they were singled out by a few people who’d found out he was the owner of the magnificent car outside and both they and the vehicle were thoroughly complimented, so he figured it was all good.

They hadn’t really realized how late it was and how many drinks in they were until Crowley leaned into Aziraphale’s shoulder with a warm, boneless sort of comfort. “An angel and a demon walk into a bar,” he sniggered. “Ssays the demon to the angel…”

“Mmyes?”

“An angel and a demon walk into a bar.”

Aziraphale sputtered out a laugh, drunk on wine and cider and who knew what else, as well as on the people around him, this pub, this village, and Crowley, always Crowley. He didn’t know why it was funny. He didn’t know if it was funny. He only knew that this feeling was everything, and he didn’t want it to end.

He remembered pulling the demon to his feet, he remembered arms around him, he remembered a hazy dance. He remembered a kiss, and a few people giving them sideways looks, but immediately tripping over tangled shoelaces afterwards[5]. He remembered sly yellow eyes peering at him over dark lenses, full of barely veiled temptation, and he remembered the two of them slinking away while the evening petered out behind them, chuckling and giggling as they pulled eachother up the stairs to their shared room.

He remembered a pang of… something, at the realization they shared a room, just the one place to go back to together. They hadn’t, not really, not since…

“’Member that time in Verona?” he managed, willing his feet up the steps. Since when were stairs this complicated? “When your place got burned down. We shared mine for a bit.”

“Hmm, that was nice. Never like this, though.” Never without fear of being found out, fear of finding something within themselves that might pose danger to the other. Never without fearful self-imposed distance.

When they fell into bed together and Aziraphale cuddled away every inch of that distance as the room gradually stopped spinning, he figured no place had ever felt as much like home as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The lion part symbolized courage, nobility, royalty and strength. Aziraphale had never particularly identified with these, but part of him had felt they didn’t completely _contradict_ who he was, either. As a whole, the griffin also embodied intelligence – which, while his British modesty wouldn’t have him outright confirm it, he certainly wasn’t about to deny either – and fidelity to its mate, which had always made something in him do a funny little flip when he caught himself thinking about it. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Snakes do have ears, although not to hear other snakes. Contrary to popular belief, they lie sunken under the snake’s skin, rendering the creature not deaf but simply hard of hearing. Crowley, of course, was only hard of hearing when he wanted to be, regardless of his shape. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Crowley’s fingers had been rough with callus, but warm, slender and elegant as ever, and Aziraphale had been a little too glad neither of them had been wearing those clunky steel gauntlets anymore. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Monastery ale and mead were a wonderful, disastrous combination neither Crowley nor Aziraphale would soon forget, or repeat. [return to text]
> 
> 5 “Weren’t shoelaces one of yours?” “I’d swear they were one of _yours,_ dear[6].” [return to text]
> 
> 6 They were. Indeed, the code of the Knights Templar had banned shoelaces as a vanity both abominable and pagan. Crowley had forgotten all about the incident that’d driven them to this, but it’d been well-deserved. [return to text]  
\---  
I borrowed heavily from the town of Petersfield, pretty much smack-dab in the South Downs where I’ve also placed Epfield. The Good Intent and the Folly Upstairs are actual places. The Serpent Trail also starts there. It was just too perfect.


	2. Play the Game

Aziraphale woke up to daylight already filtering through the curtains, dimmed to something gentle and soft. It traced over his outstretched arm, the wrinkles of the sheets, and the form of a slender demon propped up on one elbow, watching him with a fond smile.

For just a moment the angel didn’t know where he was, but that question didn’t really matter in the light of those golden eyes. He still didn’t really have the hang of sleeping, much less waking up in an unfamiliar location, but the demon’s presence grounded him, and it all came back to him quickly.

“Good morning, angel.”

“Good morning, dearest.” Aziraphale scooted closer, only to find Crowley backing away, his smile never wavering. “Hey…”

“An angel and a demon wake up in a bed together,” the demon interjected, smile widening. “Says the demon to the angel…”

Aziraphale frowned ever so slightly. “Yes?”

“You know what day it is?”

The angel cocked his head, searching his internal calendar. “Um. Saturday… August 24th.” He stared blankly for a moment, before widening his eyes. “…Oh!” A jolt coursed through him, his heart swelling, memory and emotion rushing in. “Oh, my dear!”

“Happy anniversary,” Crowley grinned, eyes glinting like the sun. A hint of incredulity tinged his voice, as though he couldn’t believe he was uttering the words, hadn’t ever expected to utter them at all. “Happy… enduring-me-for-a-year day.”

“Look at me, being far too busy with the _year_ to pay attention to the _date!_” That, and the… other thing, of course. Aziraphale beamed up at Crowley even as he slightly ducked his head, secretly figuring it’d been a good thing he hadn’t made his move yesterday. “I’m so sorry, dear, I can’t believe I forgot…”

“I forgive you,” the demon smirked. “You did take us on holiday at the perfect time.”

The angel cupped Crowley’s cheek, heart fluttering as the demon leaned into the touch. “Good Lord. One year against six thousand, and yet…”

“And yet,” Crowley agreed. Falling short of finding the right words, he folded a long hand over the angel’s own, unfurling his occult, night-sky self and brushing against Aziraphale’s ethereal, gold-dust equivalent with a soft shiver. They whirled together like second nature, that most intimate of contacts that’d be unthinkable between any other angel and demon, but the most intuitive to the two of them – although neither of them would ever take it for granted.

_This year with you, really _with_ you, is the first that’s felt right since the Fall._

_It would’ve been terrifying, freedom to this extent,_ Aziraphale hummed back, _but for the fact that it’s you by my side._ He was so lost in the warm, welcoming darkness of Crowley’s mind that it almost came as a surprise when the demon pulled their bodies flush together, enfolding him in long arms and the possessive hooking of a leg, slotting their lips together with a sigh. The overwhelming, dizzy sensation that bloomed between them came from both sides, exactly the same, a perfect match; _Home._

When they drew back, it took Aziraphale a moment to focus on anything other than Crowley’s overbright smile and gleaming eyes. Then he spotted something out of the ordinary; the entire back wall of their room had turned green and purple. They’d called the creeping wisteria in through the open window.

“We really have to dial back on the accidental miracles, dear,” Aziraphale laughed as the sweet, fresh scent of flowers and leaves filled the room, but Crowley merely grinned, nuzzling his neck. “Not today. Why would we? Today I’d call every flower in the world to this room.” He snapped his fingers. “And another thing. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t get you breakfast in bed?” With a flourish, he offered Aziraphale a plate of fluffy crepes, topped with slices of strawberry and creamy banana, covered in ribbons of chocolate. The angel laughed, pulling the demon into a kiss. “Dastardly serpent. Oh, these look _scrumptious_ –”

Crowley leant back in content as Aziraphale dug in with dainty relish, smiling as he watched the angel enjoy himself. He extended his influence towards the plants, idly adding a few more unfurling purple clusters of flowers.

“Why don’t you ever do that for your own plants, dear? They’d surely appreciate the help.”

Crowley cocked his head. “I like them standing on their own. If I helped them and bent them to my will all the time, it wouldn’t mean anything to have them. They’d just be playthings.” He realized the angel was hiding a smile with his next bite, and sputtered as he actually heard himself. “…Not that I _care_ or anything, mind. It’s just. I want them labouring, ever struggling. That’s all.”

“Oh, you ‘don’t care’ more than you’d ever admit, I’ve always known that,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Just – just eat up, will you.”

“Only if I get to share,” the angel grinned, menacing the demon with a forkful of crepe. He’d never tire of flustering Crowley, and didn’t intend to show mercy now either. The demon valiantly attempted to thwart him with evasive maneuvers, but the angel didn’t let up, eventually triumphing as Crowley gave in and opened up. “There, surely you can set aside that snakey appetite for the sake of something this delicious.”

“Not bad,” the demon conceded before swallowing. “If I do say so myself. But _now._” He grinned, expression halfway to serpentine. “You should know I hold the rights to being the bastard, here.”

“I have heard differently,” Aziraphale remarked, attempting to keep the plate at a safe distance, but failing as soon as Crowley pounced, rolling on top of him and making use of his long, clever fingers for an unholy bout of tickling. “Crowley, the bed – !”

“Sod the bed.” The demon’s eyes practically glowed with glee.

In the end, the bed had to be miracled clean. The same really went for Crowley and Aziraphale themselves, too, but once he’d caught his breath the angel raised the point that the human way of doing things was really to be preferred, and the room happened to come with a bath. Crowley had wholeheartedly agreed to this point.

“No hangups concerning bathtubs?” the angel asked as the demon tumbled out of bed after him. Neither of them had taken well to the tale of what’d befallen the other at their trials.

“Mm, maybe a little. But I’m all open to making new and positive memories.” Crowley leant back and watched as Aziraphale fussed over the tub, making sure the temperature and fragrance of the water were just right as it filled up, before undressing in a careful, almost meticulous way that was uniquely him.

The angel and demon had been completely _au naturel_ with eachother a few times throughout their shared history – mostly to partake in bathing facilities, although there had been a memorable occasion when Aziraphale had first caught wind of bacchanalia when they’d drifted over to Rome and decided at once he simply must attend one, considering what he’d heard about the feasting and the fine wines involved. The later parts of the festivities had taken him somewhat by surprise. It’d taken Crowley’s aid and them both stripping down to not seem suspicious before they’d been able to leave.

Be that as it may, each of these occasions had featured human company, and they’d had to make a certain effort to appear human as well. Here and now, there was no need for such pretense, for hiding behind a miracled-up mask of anatomy. The smoothness between Aziraphale’s legs was also uniquely him, and spoke of a far greater intimacy, trust and truth than any additions ever could. Here, Crowley saw him in full, and he hoped – although he was fairly sure – that it’d still make his heart skip a beat many centuries from now.

The angel nodded to himself, satisfied with the state of the bath, before carefully getting in and immersing himself in an ocean of foam. He made a perfect picture, an angel among fluffy clouds, a slight smile around his lips as he made himself comfortable with a few contented wiggles.

“Coming, dear?”

The demon caught himself, realizing he’d been dreamily staring at that most inviting sight for just a blink too long. “Thought you’d never ask.” He miracled away his own pajamas in one go, letting out a pleased hum as warm steam touched his bare skin. He stepped forward and slid into the angel’s arms with serpentine grace, sighing at the warmth of the water and the smooth softness of Aziraphale all around him. He closed his eyes, leaning back and resting his head onto the angel’s shoulder. He could feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat against his ribs. His soft chest felt like safety against the angles of his spine and shoulderblades. Safe, reassuring, _right._

_Home is wherever you are._

“You do know,” he hummed, “I could die happy right this second.”

A chuckle, more felt than heard at this point. “I’d rather you didn’t.” Wet fingers ran through his hair, dripping warmth through it and making him shiver in the most delicious of ways. Then the angelic touch traced down to his shoulders, gentle fingers dug into knotted muscle, and Crowley practically liquefied. “Bless it, that’s good,” he murmured. He shuddered as an ethereal touch joined the physical, flowing down his chest, enveloping him completely. He dizzily reached out to reciprocate with his own dark caress, but Aziraphale halted him with a gentle hand. “Just let me take care of you.”

Crowley shivered again as his whole body went slack and pliant at once at those words, even as something in his chest seized up to an almost painful degree. “What exactly did I do to deserve this, angel?”

A soft kiss, pressed to the side of his jaw. “Be your beautiful, wonderful self.” His cheekbone. “Be by my side against all odds for thousands of years.” His brow, and it took everything not to turn and meet it. “Defy Heaven and Hell for us.” Just under his ear, tender skin made even more sensitive by all this attention, and a raspy little sound escaped Crowley’s throat as he pressed backwards into Aziraphale’s shoulder and chest. The angel nuzzled his neck in reply. “Make it to a very special day in a very special year to miracle me crepes in be-”

“Mmf,” said Crowley, twisting impossibly as his fingers sank into pale curls, lips slotting perfectly onto the angel’s startled mouth. A breathless chuckle resounded through his mind, a ripple of light across a dark starry pond. _Now, what did I tell you?_

_What can I say?_ The demon felt himself soar without wings, trying his best not to manifest them in the bath. _I’m a rebellious sort._ There was a delicious slide of skin on wet skin as Aziraphale aligned them a bit better, a sigh escaping them both. The angel’s fingers skimmed up his nape and into his hair again. “Will you grow it out again someday?” he murmured as he drew back minutely, their minds still entangled. “I did so love it long, darling.”

Crowley chuckled. “Why didn’t you ever wear it long?” The image of flowing pale curls sparked between them. “What’s keeping you now?”

Aziraphale smiled, framing the demon’s face in his hands with a strange look in his eyes, midway between shy and scheming. “I never was much good with change, I’m afraid. But maybe I could be at some point.”

They’d missed half the day once they set foot outside, but they figured they’d made good use of their time anyway. They’d miracled away the wisteria inside their room as not to upset the hotel’s owners, but its fresh scent had lingered, and it was matched by the outside air. The weather was glorious, although there was a hint of upcoming rain in the air.

Aziraphale caught Crowley with an almost uncharacteristically easy smile on his face. “It’s good, isn’t it. Better than even I expected.”

“Mmh. Can’t put my finger on what it is, though. London’s good too. We go to the park often enough.”

The angel let his eyes wander, taking in the little streets, the town’s more historic architecture, the rolling hills occasionally visible when the streets allowed a view outside the town. The people, so much more relaxed and cordial than in frantically buzzing London with its thronging crowds. They both liked London, had gotten used to the crowds long ago, but maybe that was just it.

“London still feels like work,” Aziraphale thoughtfully remarked. “Free or not, we needed a change of scenery to really _feel_ like we are.”

“You may have a point.” Crowley glanced around. “First time I felt actually free was when I figured we had nothing left to lose, back on the airstrip. But this, well.” He chuckled, almost embarrassed. “It’s a kind of magic?”

The angel nodded. “London holds too many memories, perhaps,” he pondered, feeling this thought was an important one and determined to follow it all the way through. “We’ve been there for… what, a millennium and a half as it was built around us, only popping out for a few decades at a time at best? All those years acting out our roles, you can’t go two feet without some reminder rearing its head. But this place only holds one memory, and it’s a good one.”

Crowley nodded with a faint half-smile. “The good old Arrangement. Here’s to another millennium of good memories.”

The day saw them drifting this way and that, from an ice cream parlor to the hippie shop where Aziraphale did in fact procure a few dazzling hanging crystals, as well as some incense carefully chosen not to contain any sacred herbs (but not before Crowley had to drag him away from blessing all the supposedly healing gemstones and minerals on display into actually working). They visited the little museum where Crowley recognized a few trinkets and weapons from the Danes he’d led across England. “That has to be Ulfgar’s sword. He chipped it himself, mostly used it to clean his nails.” A glance and a shrug. “What? I didn’t actually have them do much fighting. Mostly just made them look intimidating so the peasants would flee on sight. It was a relief when you agreed to the Arrangement and I could drop the bloody facade.”

“Threat displays before striking, and even then with great reluctance,” Aziraphale nodded sagely. “Wily old serpent.”

“I’ve got to pry you away from those nature documentaries.”

“It was you who recommended them after I thought dolphins were fish, remember? In my defense, I was _quite_ drunk –”

As they talked, their path led them past the lush monastery gardens again, and Aziraphale’s eyes couldn’t help but wander over to it through its beautiful cast-iron gates. Crowley gave a fond smile. “Oh, go check up on your monks, won’t you. It’s alright.”

“Really?” The angel’s eyes flitted between the demon and the eleventh-century building with its rounded walls and narrow lancet windows. “But you won’t – I mean it’s not all consecrated ground, but they still live consecrated _lives,_ it won’t be pleasant –”

Crowley guided them to the gates and the plaque affixed there. “The Epfield Physic Garden,” he intoned, reading aloud, “has supplied the Epfield monastery and town with medicinal herbs since its foundation in 1024, before construction of the monastery itself was fully finished. In addition to herb beds, there is a topiary walk, a knot garden, a wildflower orchard…”

Aziraphale laughed seeing the demon’s sharp grin. “Alright, I see you’ll amuse yourself just fine. But do wait for me. I won’t have you burning your poor feet again.”

“Depends,” Crowley shrugged as they strolled through the gates. “If you forget the time in there and let me get bored, you leave me no choice but to come and get you.”

Aziraphale playfully scrunched his nose at him, briefly making such an adorable sight Crowley’s heart stuttered with it. Judging by the grin the angel threw over his shoulder, he’d felt that perfectly fine. “Point taken, dear! I won’t be too long!”

“Absolutely tickety-boo,” Crowley called after him with all the mockery he could still muster, before allowing his smile to stretch and fondly shaking his head at the angel’s retreating back. How ridiculous he was. He really was the luckiest demon on Earth, he had to be.

About an hour and a half later, he’d taken his time admiring and intimidating most of the garden’s delights and was just turning away from the topiaries, of which a few had been unsatisfactory in his eyes and had therefore been bullied into growing into their designated shapes all by themselves from now on. This might or might not be taken as some sort of divine miracle on these grounds, but he was in a certain mood that rendered him unlikely to be deterred by the idea.

That was when he saw Aziraphale coming towards him across the loose gravel path, wearing a big smile and a twinkle in his eyes, walking fast with an air of excitement as though he’d just discovered some priceless first edition he’d barely had to haggle for. Or perhaps a new Infamous Bible, that seemed more likely in this case. Crowley couldn’t help but start grinning himself at the sight of his joy, even without knowing the cause. “What’s gotten into you, angel?”

“The monastery,” Aziraphale breathed, trotting up to him. “It’s not dedicated to a saint.” He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Crowley raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is that unusual?”

“Well, not all of them are. But this one – oh, dearest, this one’s dedicated to _us._”

This forced Crowley’s other eyebrow into action as well, raising both high over his glasses. “…Come again? _Both of us?_”

“Both of us! They’ve built the monastery around the tale of its founding and they honour us both as they would a pair of saints, Brother Ezra and Krage the Cunning! The friar that protected the people, and the Dane that refused to fight!” Aziraphale’s smile was painfully bright, his eyes shining with barely restrained wetness. Crowley blinked, finding himself similarly, embarrassingly teary. The humans _remembered._ The versions of themselves they’d been when forging the Arrangement were _remembered,_ enshrined even. He was speechless as Aziraphale carried on. “You should’ve seen the stained glass, the inscriptions, the manuscripts unique to this place – we _are_ interpreted as a smidge supernatural here and there, but they decided the best thing we did was honour the people by leaving them to their own devices as soon as they were safe. Alone, but free. Your apple didn’t go unnoticed either. It was equated with Eve’s almost immediately.”

“But they still viewed it positively?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands, his smile a heartbreaking thing. “Crowley, they preserved some of the seeds in the reliquary, the way another monastery would a bone relic. And they interpret Genesis a bit differently than usual, too.”

Crowley had to look away, his expression wobbly, but his heart overflowing. “This town,” he uttered. “This blasted town.”

They ventured almost out of the blasted town to have dinner at a snug lakeside restaurant, as the evening cooled and wispy clouds rolled in from the north. A few of the staff that’d been in the Good Intent the night before recognized them on the waterside terrace, and they were greeted with warm smiles.

“Will you be staying with us awhile, sirs?” their waitress asked as she poured their wine, polite as anything, but somehow just as sincere as the waiters at the Ritz they’d been generously tipping for as long as anyone there could remember.

“Just the weekend,” Aziraphale smiled back. “But it is lovely here. This town is so welcoming.” He looked over at Crowley. “I daresay we’ll be coming back at some point.”

“Oh, certainly.” _It won’t do to stay away as long as we did last time._

“That’s very good to hear, sirs,” the waitress smiled, privately thinking that for a pair of very clear Londoners, these two gentlemen seemed right at home in town, as if some part of them had been grounded here already.

To said pair of tourists, the entire evening felt like a warm welcome as they ate and chatted and enjoyed their surroundings, even as the air cooled and a magnificent waterside sunset arrived to them on orange and purple wings.

Once again, a perfect moment. Aziraphale surreptitiously looked around, briefly considered dropping the ring into Crowley’s drink as he was distracted by the sunset view, the way he’d fantasized about doing on occasion, at the Ritz perhaps – but that’d be absurd now, not right at all, not something to be done with an ethereal object –

What about taking a knee? No. No, he couldn’t possibly put Crowley on the spot like that, not here…

But it had to be today, there wouldn’t ever be a more perfect time, date or even year for it.

As so often, Crowley came to his rescue. “Let’s get out of here, shall we, angel?” He called their waitress over, and watching him pay felt like a final countdown to Aziraphale, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. “Let’s stay out a while,” the angel managed. “This fresh air… and we didn’t properly see the lake yesterday…”

As Crowley agreed and they strolled along the lakeside, Aziraphale grew ever more nervous. In a single bold move, he’d slipped his ring off and into his pocket. Crowley had taken his ringless hand barely a minute later, and he’d had to try his best to stop himself from hyperventilating.

The demon wasn’t quite aware of the extent of the angel’s agitation, but he had noticed the sudden lack of his ring. A bit strange, perhaps – but the thought that’d almost reared its head in reaction had been too much to grasp or bear, and he was so used to burying such things the instant they arose. Slowing down, holding his horses, even the mental ones, lest they kick him in the chest. He quickly talked over the feeling. “Y’know, I was still debating with myself whether to take you somewhere for this occasion,” he smiled. “The anniversary, I mean. I was thinking grand gestures. Paris, Rome, where Eden used to be. But you were,” he snickered, “you were _too fast_ for me with exactly the destination we needed, angel. And of course, _you’re_ all I really need.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but before something akin to ‘ngk’ could come out – he didn’t feel like his brain could possibly come up with anything more coherent at this point – he was saved by a sudden droplet of water striking his nose. He halted, looking up.

Dark wisps of cloud had crept in overhead. A very gentle drizzle pattered down into the grass, making ripples in the still lake.

_Drat._ And everything had been so perfect, too…

A proverbial lightbulb dinged on over his head. Well, in the context of things, it might’ve been more of a sun, or…

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, an ethereal glow lighting up his face. “Your halo, what are you – we’re out in the open –”

Aziraphale looked around. Their stroll had taken them a good distance away from the restaurant, the town, all traces of civilization in a way that could never have been possible in London. Trees obscured the waterline they might’ve been observed from. The path ahead and behind was deserted – it was raining, after all, droplets steadily growing bigger and coming down more rapidly. Anyone caught outside now must be hurrying back indoors.

There was only one thing he could do, really. This marvelous planet was basically forcing his hand. Maybe it was as tired of waiting as he was.

Halting under the overhanging boughs of a willow tree that barely shielded them from the weather, he took Crowley’s hand in both of his own, and raised both his wings over the demon’s head with a gentle _woosh._ He held Crowley’s widening golden gaze as the demon’s mouth worked to find and form words, only coming out as a stream of stammering instead. “What – you – this – angel, we’re in _public_ –”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale smiled. He lifted Crowley’s hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Dear, if I may… let me see you, too? There’s something I want to show you.”

The demon remained frozen for a moment, but then took off his glasses, a slight tremble to his hand. Yellow hadn’t yet overtaken the whole of his eyes, but his irises were quite overblown, and Aziraphale reckoned their heart rates matched at this point.

Time to kick them up another notch, he supposed.

_Here goes everything._

He knelt down, stretching out his wings so he was able to keep shielding Crowley as he went, and took the ring from his pocket.

It shone as it emerged into the darkening air, emanating a golden light only they could see. Its wings and crest gleamed with it, impossibly bright, lighting up Crowley’s stunned, stunning eyes and reflecting in his widening pupils like distant stars. _Holy. Holy. Holy._

“My dear,” the angel began, his mouth drier than the desert outside Eden’s walls, “I find myself fully separate from Heaven’s influences, and this piece of myself separate from the rest of me. If you’ll have it, I’d very much like to give it to you.” His heart throbbed as Crowley clasped his free hand over his mouth, his eyes widening and darkening further. “What the Heaven,” the demon muttered. “What the actual –” He swallowed thickly. “Don’t tell me this is what I think it is.”

“I found myself holding a part of me, and I can’t think of a finer demon to give it to,” Aziraphale managed with a wobbly smile.

“What is it with giving away everything you have?” Tears brimmed in Crowley’s eyes, his voice muffled by more than just his hand.

“Everything I _am,_ in this case, darling.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, tears gathering on and then spilling down his fingers. “Oh.” He sank down to meet Aziraphale, cupping his face, paying no heed to the damp ground soaking their trousers and coats. “And here I thought. Here I thought I’d be the one to – here I thought I was the fast one, but I was gonna wait, I was gonna… I was…” His fingers fluttered over Aziraphale’s cheek, eliciting a hopeless, smitten smile from the angel. At this, the demon’s eyes flicked back to the ring at last, and he nodded, his expression one of the greatest possible reverence. As the angel slid it onto his right ring finger, they both shivered in reaction. Crowley looked up at once, speechless under his gaze, under the feeling of the light physically wrapped around him.

“Is this too fast, dear?” Aziraphale whispered, slightly out of breath.

Crowley closed his eyes as if in pain, or the exact opposite. “No. Yes. Maybe.” His eyes snapped open, unable to look away for even a moment. “Doesn’t matter. The answer is yes, angel, always was, yes, yes, yes –” He rested their foreheads together, every breathy ‘yes’ escaping him like birds from a cage, stretching their wings after who knew how many thousands of years. (Aziraphale knew.) “I’m yours, every last bit of this damned soul –”

A breathless laugh escaped Aziraphale, and he couldn’t help but open his wings, wrapping his arms around Crowley and lifting them both slightly off the ground in exhilaration, which only grew as Crowley flung back his own wings and pressed closer into a fierce, heated kiss, dispelling every bit of the rain’s chill as their wingbeats blew back the willow’s branches. The drops no longer touched them. They were encased in warmth and light, there at dusk at the edge of summer, joined in ways that could never be undone.

They barely moved apart as they landed, shoes touching soft earth. Crowley was still shivering in Aziraphale’s arms. “Angel,” he spoke, forcefully steadying his voice and not doing a very good job of it, “I was going to propose to you with the best damn ring I could find, but nothing could possibly match what you’ve just given me.” He stared at the ring shining on his finger, radiant with the essence of a former Cherub. “This is like… no, it’s better than being back in Her Grace. It’s _you._ Angel, how… _how_ do you keep doing this?” His voice hitched. “I can’t possibly…”

And the demon closed his mouth, unblinking eyes suddenly gleaming. Aziraphale jolted at the sheer determination set in the lines of his face now, his racing heart stuttering for a moment. “Dearest?” he whispered.

“No such thing as _can’t,_” the demon quietly hissed.

And Crowley moved his hands to his chest, his body tensing up in the strangest of ways. Scales rushed over his skin in a single wave, from his fingertips and under the fabric of his clothes to his chest, up his throat and across his face, and then something akin to a dark halo mirroring Aziraphale’s golden light manifested around his head, for just a moment.

Aziraphale forgot to breathe.

Crowley let his breath escape in a single rush as the tension left his body, the darkness flooding back to his chest, his hands, blazing out through his fingers and then stilling – but not vanishing.

The demon opened his hands. He was holding a ring.

It was nothing like Aziraphale’s. It was slender, and deepest black, shot through with flashes of red and silver like fleeting jets of flame, glimpses of fangs. Aziraphale’s golden ring wasn’t made of any Earthly metal, but Crowley’s didn’t even _resemble_ anything of this world; it seemed like it belonged in the spaces between stars. As the demon’s hands trembled, the light caught countless yellow scintillations lining its inner curve, the exact shade of his eyes.

“That was interesting,” the demon breathed, smiling unsteadily.

“Are you alright,” the angel managed, absolutely dumbstruck.

“Perfectly.” Crowley shakily straightened himself. “Angel. Aziraphale. Light of my life.” He smiled, his eyes almost glowing as his ring blazed between his fingers. There wasn’t a trace left of his usual snark, bite or sarcasm; he’d never looked more joyful and absolutely thrilled than he did now. He’d never looked more beautiful. “Will you marry me?”

Aziraphale stared; at Crowley, at the ring. He knew what it was, what Crowley had just done and was now freely offering, although it was taking a while to really get through to him. _Wheels within wheels,_ it shot through his head, _or perhaps the shadow of a wheel. Lined with divine eyes, lined with stars._

_Ophanim._

But Crowley’s two demonic eyes were still on him, yellow and slitted and glorious, and all the words on Aziraphale’s lips were swept away by just the one that really mattered. “Yes,” he trembled, his eyes filling with tears. “Yes, darling, yes –” He shivered uncontrollably as Crowley carefully slipped the ring onto his left ring finger, where it sat in sharp contrast to his skin, to his being, a shadow complementing and completing his light.

They both needed a moment to get used to it all, gasping and swallowing thickly, staring at one another and their rings, holding on to eachother for support. The rain quieted down around them, and the sound of birdsong tentatively ventured out into the freshly fallen silence. Once again, the angel and demon completely missed the lone nightingale[1].

“Is this real?” Crowley then asked. “Are we… engaged?”

“It does look that way,” Aziraphale beamed. “Although, well. We did once stand in a church, I’m sure you remember. We had three witnesses, and we promised to save eachother’s lives no matter what it took.” The angel chuckled, briefly holding the demon at arm’s length to properly admire the stunned look spreading across his features now. “If you really think about it, we’ve been married since 1941. The rings just came in a little late, that’s all.”

“Also I blew up the witnesses,” Crowley muttered, barely hearing himself.

“Well, they did make a right nuisance of themselves. It was only fair, really.”

“Wait, wait,” the demon hurried, snapping to attention. “_If you think about it?_”

The angel blushed. “Well, I have. That very night in fact. You did make quite the impression on this slow fool of an angel.”

Crowley pressed a hand to his forehead, ran it through his hair. “I – you –” A burst of incomprehensible sputtering escaped him. “That was the night you realized – and you were already – and then you accuse _me_ of going too fast?!”

“I only took note of the similarities,” Aziraphale fussed, flustering. “I wasn’t ready to _actually_ – then and there, you know – but the thought gradually grew on me, and I just liked to privately think…”

Crowley’s eyes settled on him, searching his face. His thoughts were visibly already lightyears ahead in a future he hadn’t thought possible just ten minutes ago. He was accustomed to the pace his mind set; it’d served him very well in Hell, and to help spare Aziraphale whatever Heaven felt like dealing out at any given time. He’d only been at peace for about a year, and at times it was still hard to let that sink in. It’d overwhelmed him at some points, to _not_ have to look over his shoulder all the time, let alone contemplate what else he might desire. He’d thought he had everything he’d spent thousands of years yearning for. But now, he realized there was something he still wanted, something that was possible now. “Well. Technically we’re already married, then,” he started, slow, careful, blushing furiously and unable to lift his eyes higher than Aziraphale’s bowtie. “And I know it’s… ssudden. But if we – I mean, would you –”

The angel gently tipped up his chin as he devolved into increasingly quiet stammering. “Would I want to get married officially?”

A wordless nod.

Aziraphale paused, thoughtful, gazing into his eyes. _Anything you want_ was on the tip of his tongue, but it was rapidly being elbowed aside by something else, something that wanted to shout his joy from the rooftops and let the whole world know that he could call his demon _husband,_ something that wanted, _yearned_ to openly celebrate what they were and what they had before the eyes of whoever was looking. He realized a wide smile had taken up residence on his face, and this acknowledgement stoked it into a grin.

Crowley knew enough, and let out a rushed breath of laughter.

“We could have a garden ceremony,” Aziraphale beamed. “We could invite _everyone._ There could be the most amazing cake.”

The demon gently bumped his forehead against the angel’s, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “We’ll have all the cake you could ever want,” he agreed, before letting out a startled yelp as Aziraphale pulled him in by his necktie and sealed that promise with a kiss that left no room for argument. Not that Crowley would ever argue with this.

Their walk back to the hotel had passed in a bubble of elation, their linked hands bearing their rings swinging between them and neither of them able to stop glancing at them. Streetlights had flickered and burned brighter as they passed by. Flowers and weeds alike had burst into bloom in little gardens, Crowley’s aura for once not making distinction between them. Moths had been attracted to the unworldly light coming off them, their eyes suited to wavelengths humans could never catch, but soon thought better of fluttering too close and having their little hearts explode.

As they went up the narrow stairs to their room, Aziraphale briefly left Crowley’s side to follow behind him, and was momentarily left to gaze at his ring. His earlier thoughts came back to him, through the haze of happiness that’d briefly blocked them out. _Wheels within wheels…_

He pondered whether or not to give words to what’d just become clear to him. It might bring back painful memories for Crowley. But on the other hand… they were engaged. They were soon to be married. They should never have secrets for eachother.

When Crowley settled on the bed and kicked off his shoes, Aziraphale briefly fidgeted with his hands, fingers brushing over the dark ring. It was so strange, no longer wearing anything on his right hand and feeling pressure on his left instead – but he hoped he’d never get used to it. He wanted to be reminded of this, all the time.

“I didn’t know it was even possible, separating part of yourself like that,” Crowley confessed as he saw where Aziraphale’s focus was, twisting the golden ring around on his own hand. “But knowing that you did, well. Had to try. Curiosity engaged the angel,” he grinned.

“It’s extraordinary, Crowley. I love it, I never want to take it off.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, his eyes bright, his heart in his throat. “There’s just, um. Well. There’s something it made me realize.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you know what it is? What you gave me?”

“I – hm.” The demon paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I know it’s a part of me. But I guess that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“It’s a wheel. Or the shadow of one.” Aziraphale held Crowley’s inquiring gaze. “Darling, I can feel the angel you were in it.”

The demon went very still. “Wuh. _What._”

“Should I. Um. Do you want me to tell you?”

Crowley sucked in a sharp breath. “_Yes._”

“You – you were one of the Ophanim.” Reverence filled Aziraphale’s voice upon uttering the word. The Third Choir, just below the Archangels and Cherubim; a rather awe-inspiring, if a bit haughty and stuffy order of angels Aziraphale had looked up to for almost all of his time on Earth, and had a healthy dose of respect for even before his demotion to Principality. “You were the very highest of the starmakers, the wheels first setting Creation into motion. You were there when matter itself was first called into being. Your role in Creation itself… well, it would’ve been to open people’s minds and lead them to discovery.” In practice, most of the remaining Ophanim still in Heaven had slacked off on this task, choosing to recline and observe Creation in a rather pedantic way, but Aziraphale suspected they would’ve had nothing on the way humanity went about their world themselves anyway. Angels were always so terribly hamfisted. Either humanity would already have known of the essential new information and it would’ve been an awkward situation when they didn’t act surprised, or the revelation would’ve broiled a few unprepared minds. _Crowley,_ however…

A shuddering breath. “Well.” The demon’s eyes were wide and damp, and remained locked to Aziraphale’s as he went and wiped his cheeks with a dark sleeve. “I’d say I’ve done a pretty bang-up job at leading people to discovery, haven’t I. As for those wheels… maybe that’s why I took to cars like a… like a duck to water…”

Aziraphale ran his hands up the demon’s arms, his smile impossibly fond and full of pride. “You’ve been a terrific Ophan, love. The best of them, whether some part of you knew it or not.”

“Can you… do you know my name? Can you sense _who_ I was, too?” A pleading tone had crept into Crowley’s voice; over six thousand years of wondering, searching, being denied. Aziraphale sadly shook his head, and the demon nodded in understanding. “Ah. Oh well.” His eyes briefly flicked down to his own golden ring, and he brightened, suddenly grinning up at Aziraphale. “I’m Anthony J. Crowley.”

The angel held him close, nestling his chin in Crowley’s hair. “And I wouldn’t have you any different.” Relief washed over him; he was glad he’d told the demon what he knew, and the revelation had been taken well.

Crowley nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck. “So we were both pretty high-ranking angels, huh. And now… we’re in between everything. Just the two of us.” He pressed a kiss to the angel’s pulse. “I’m not an Earthly snake, no longer an angel, never was a proper demon. You once rubbed shoulders with the Almighty, now you’ll have to settle for me.” He playfully flicked out a forked tongue, and the angel giggled. “Oh, what punishment.” He pulled back a little to look the demon in the eye. “We don’t belong anywhere but with eachother.”

Crowley sighed at that, a hazy smile on his face, overwhelmed by the events and revelations of the day. “Meant to be, dare I say it,” he murmured. He linked their beringed hands, admiring the way the golden ring looked on his own and kissing the back of Aziraphale’s.

Then focus snapped back into his eyes, all at once, and they both looked up. Music rolled into the room from outside their window; a familiar tune, and far too loud for the late hour.

_Open up your mind and let me step inside  
Rest your weary head and let your heart decide_

“What –” Aziraphale started saying, but Crowley was already pacing over. As he opened the window, the music turned truly deafening.

_It's so easy, all you have to do  
Is fall in love  
Play the game  
Everybody play the game of love…_

It was the Bentley. Somehow, a window had rolled down, and the radio was blasting Queen at full volume down the quiet nighttime street. Doors were being opened, people started shouting.

Crowley blessed under his breath and angrily snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He tried again, but the music was still blaring.

The demon briefly looked back at Aziraphale, and then bolted from the room, down the stairs and through the pub, tripping and dodging patrons as he went, then sprinting outside to turn off the radio by hand – but just as he yanked open the car door, the music stopped by itself, followed by a few bursts of static suspiciously resembling giggles.

“Damn you,” Crowley hissed. “Interrupting a perfectly good moment like that…”

_Light another cigarette and let yourself go,_ the radio murmured in between more bouts of static, at a normal volume this time.

“Not another word,” the demon warned, pointing a sharp finger at the dashboard. “Or note. I mean it. I’ll have you drive the speed limit, see if I don’t.” He flung back a pointed look as he closed the door and strode back to the hotel. The people in the street returned to their houses, and a few of those that’d been drinking and chatting in the pub stepped outside to greet him with both raised eyebrows and smiles. “What was that about, then?”

“No idea,” Crowley spoke truthfully. “Never done that before.”

A quiet laugh from above. “Everything alright, dear?”

He looked up. Aziraphale was leaning out of their window, framed by light and the purple wisteria.

Crowley stilled for a moment. Then his shoulders set with something like determination, be it a rather foolish kind. He was very aware of this, but he also knew he’d be blessed if he didn’t seize this situation. _Play the game. Light another cigarette, and…_ He stretched out an arm before he could ruin this for himself with the annoyance of reasoning. “But soft,” he spoke, driven by the most wondrous flavour of stupidity, “what light through yonder window breaks?”

He was aware of people snickering nearby, but didn’t let himself be deterred. More and more of them fell silent as he continued, probably not expecting his nigh-perfect articulation and cadence. “It is the east, and he is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou art more fair than she.”

Aziraphale had burst into an incredulous fit of embarrassed laughter, ducking his head – but not moving away, and his embarrassment was kept company by an impish glint of amusement and fondness in his eyes. “_Crowley,_” he hissed, stern tone utterly ruined by the chuckles that followed. “What in the _world_ –”

“He speaks!” the demon triumphantly interjected, picking up steam, undeterred by the anachronism of idiotic young love suddenly flooding his ancient immortal body. “Oh, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, and sails upon the bosom of the air.”

“What the hell, mate,” someone called out from the pub, and the demon whipped around. “We’re engaged as of tonight,” he exclaimed, showing off his ring as Aziraphale broke down into giggles above him. “I’ve always wanted to do this, give me a break.”

“Fair’s fair,” the same patron conceded amidst a whoop of praise and congratulations, raising his glass. “Carry on then. You’re pretty good.” A few others agreed. A free bit of theatre on a summer night couldn’t hurt.

Crowley looked up, his expression telling the angel he’d indeed wanted to do this for over four hundred years. Aziraphale straightened out, posture saying _in for a penny, in for a pound._ “Crowley, Crowley, wherefore art thou Crowley?” He grinned for a moment, mentally rearranging his lines; no need for any ‘deny thy father and refuse thy name’ nonsense. “Only to delight and enrapture me,” he waxed, as Crowley’s face lit up below him. The angel effortlessly skipped over the other lamentatious parts of the scene, electing to focus only on the romance, gesturing as he went. “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.” Being somewhat of a poetic expert who might or might not on occasion recite his favorites out loud to himself, his performance elicited even more praise and actual applause from the people listening. Amidst them, Crowley could only stare, pure willpower the only thing keeping his jaw from dropping. The angel peered down, coyly leaning back into the window with a grin. “I hear some noise outside; good people, adieu! Anon, dear love! Sweet Crowley, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.”

Crowley took his cue after just one more stunned moment, quickly moving inside through the applause. “O blessed, blessed night,” he declared as he went, grinning wide and overbright. “I am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial.” And as he raced up the stairs, he did for a moment fear it really was all too good to be true, but then Aziraphale opened their door, swept him inside and gently halted him as he leaned in to capture his lips, instead greeting him with an earlier line they’d skipped. “What satisfaction canst thou have, tonight?”

Crowley almost forgot his line in his infatuation and surprise at continuing their little game a bit longer. “The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine,” he then managed.

“I gave thee mine before thou didst request it,” Aziraphale beamed. “And yet I would it were to give again.”

“Wouldst thou withdraw it?” Crowley replied, dreamily framing the angel’s face, ever closer, their voices ever softer. “For what purpose, love?”

“But to be frank, and give it thee again,” Aziraphale murmured against his mouth, weaving fingers into his hair and pulling him in.

Crowley didn’t have a next line. Luck of the devil. He’d never have been able to free his lips from their current occupation.

Satan’s name, but old Billy Shakes really had been onto something, even in his tragedies.

On Sunday, they rested, and deservedly so.

Nonetheless, throughout the day, paper-pushers in both Heaven and Hell were most disgruntled to be notified of one frivolous miracle after another, most of which intended to summon various slices of cake to an East Hampshire hotel room. In the end, one giggling angel and demon were still not sure which of their former sides provided better room service, but they _were_ one step closer to the wedding of their dreams, so they counted it as a most resounding win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Not there by miracle this time. Contrary to what the song may have you believe, you’re far more likely to encounter one in the woods of rural England than in Berkeley Square.[return to text]


End file.
